


one rainy day

by OofGetaLoadofThisSociety (marin27)



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Other, Sort of? - Freeform, Swearing, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marin27/pseuds/OofGetaLoadofThisSociety
Summary: Arthur unintentionally makes a friend on a rainy day. And he finds that maybe kindness does come back around.





	one rainy day

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, this is another fic with Arthur. I can't get enough of it.  
And yes, in this fic, there is flirting.  
Spoilers.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Implied Murders (which were in the film)

It’s cold in Gotham. Freezing, really. The air is frigid and the rain certainly does not help. The fat droplets that give deafening _pit pats _on the ground flow into the rancid sewers, dragging every bit of grime and dirt on the streets of the hell-hole that is the west side of Gotham City. 

Through the chaos that is the heaviest rain the city has seen in a while, a man walks under the hard droplets that feel like bullets on flesh, his raincoat serving as enough cover for his body. 

The man, Arthur, is gaunt, clearly having lost some hours of sleep and even some weight. But he doesn’t crack or even falter at the harsh weather. If anything, it seems to lift his spirits a little. 

The dried, flaky makeup at the edges of his hairline wash away with the splatter of water, like ashes from the cigarette he just finished before leaving his workplace, _ Ha Ha’s. _

His green eyes are dull, and almost seem mindless, lost in his thoughts as he travels down the road and towards the bus stop. 

As he feels his socks squelch from the water in his worn-down leather shoes, watching a shiny gloss from over the tops of his shoes, he hears a faint sound, quiet and almost muffled. Crying. 

He stops in his tracks, straining his hearing past the loud thunder rumbles, eyes still glued to his shoes. 

Sobs, soft and barely audible but there. He turns to his left, seeing a broken-down abandoned building. He walks by it without a second glance every day when he gets to work. 

He looks around, checking for anyone other than himself walking the streets. The roads are empty. No one would walk in this heavy rain. 

He turns to the building, taking a few steps towards the broken-in door. Instantly, the crying is louder, clearer. They're inside. 

He looks at the ground, wondering to himself if he should enter. Is it worth the risk? Gotham is known to have some dangerous individuals dwelling within, especially in buildings like this. He’s heard stories of people tricking civilians by asking for help then attacking them. But he can hear the emotion in their cries, it’s genuine, the sobs sound like they're in pain. 

He sighs, feeling a part of him saying he shouldn’t go in. But he’d just be like the rest of them, walking by as if they never noticed a thing. He’s experienced it enough to know how shitty it is. 

Arthur doesn’t spare another moment, worried he’d back out at a second thought. 

He walks into the building. 

It’s dark, and from the shambles of what this building is, it seems to be an old bakery of some sort. There are glasses cases meant for display, a menu board with words that have gotten faint over time and various signs with pastry treats printed on them. 

He doesn’t try to investigate more, only heads into the direction of the sounds. He goes further into the bakery, where the room stretches with trashed tables and broken chairs. At the end of the room, in a booth with its table cut in half, sits a person curled in a ball, sobbing their heart out. 

Their clothes are in tatters, barefoot and grimy—they seem to be homeless. 

Arthur approaches them with hopes of being quiet. 

_ Crack. _

Glass crunches under his foot and their head bolts up, a pitiful and terrified whimper halting their crying. They stare at him, and he stares back. Silence is thick. 

He can see the emotions and fear flit across their face. They glance towards the entrance, clearly wondering if they can outrun him. But he knows better. They look like they haven’t eaten in days. They’re barefoot, which is a wonder how they even got there without their feet getting cut up so badly. 

Arthur swallows past his thick tongue, and he reaches up slowly—as to not startle them—to pull down his raincoat hood. They only stare, their body still with fear and tension. Arthur doesn’t want to scare them more than he already did. 

“What are you doing here.” they deadpan; it’s more of a statement and less of a question. Their voice is croaky, from lack of use and crying. Arthur doubts they have had anything to drink either, from the way they are living. Their joints seem to pop out of their skin, possibly even more than Arthur’s do. Their cheeks are hollow but still has a tinge of color. Their eyes are not dulled like Arthur’s, they seem sharp and clear. It’s almost like a shock to his brain how bright their eyes are, even despite the puffiness from tears. 

It’s clear they would have looked... pretty, in a sense, if they looked a little healthier, if they ate regularly. He knows about people who use their looks as a way of survival. Clearly, this person decided not to. 

Arthur finds his mouth dry and his head empty on what to say. He should tell them why he’s here but if he were completely honest, he doesn’t even know that answer himself. He tightens his lips. “I-I’m Arthur.” 

They raise a brow. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here.” 

The fear in their body has settled into a more aggressive approach, their body tense with the readiness to defend themselves if it gets to that. Immediately, Arthur hunches in on his shoulders, making himself appear smaller. “I just...wanted to see if anyone needed help.” 

They stare at Arthur. Quickly, as if just remember they were crying a few moments ago, their hand reaches up to wipe away the tears. “So?” 

“I just...I don’t know.” Arthur truly doesn’t know why he’s here, or what drove him to go into the building. They sniffle, hugging their knees closer to themselves. 

The silence is much thicker than it was before, with both of them just staring the other down. One of them is out of fear and defense, the other out of curiosity and slight concern. At the flash of lightning, their shoulders reach up to their ears, awaiting the boom. A few seconds pass, and a thunder clap echoes throughout the building. They flinch, gnashing their teeth as the tension in their body seems to get worse. 

Arthur takes one good look at them. As they breathe, each puff comes out in white wisps, and each breath in causes a chill that tremors their body. They’re shivering, clearly cold and terrified, but their stare is vicious, as if he’s staring at a viper ready to strike. But there’s something about them, something that makes a part within Arthur soften. They look small, helpless and—dare he say—precious in a way. He suddenly wants to laugh at that thought. But he holds in it, careful to not set off something he’ll regret. 

Without really realizing what he’s doing, his hands move to remove his raincoat off of his shoulders. Their posture freezes, eyes now almost glaring a hole through Arthur. 

He holds onto the raincoat as he slowly takes off his jacket underneath. It’s a navy-blue jacket that, although isn’t thick enough to hold off the rain, is enough to keep their fragile body warm. He puts the raincoat back on, holding his jacket within his hands. 

Slowly, he walks towards them, wincing at the sounds of glass crunching under his feet, as if he’s not supposed to disturb the silence between them. Once he reaches the booth, he notices it’s as if they retreated within themselves, the realization that Arthur may actually hurt them finally settling in. 

Without a word, he reaches out to them, his blue jacket in his hand. They stare, in between him and the piece of clothing. Once more moments pass in silence, Arthur blinks and he’s moving again. 

This time, he walks a bit closer so he can unfold the jacket, letting it billow out so it comes undone. He places the jacket squarely on their bony shoulders, encasing them with the fabric. They flinch, but the second the jackets fully uncloses around them, they almost melt into it, already appreciating the warmth that comes from the extra protection against the cold and Arthur’s body heat. It’s like every cell in their body, every aching bone and shivering muscle accepts the heat like an old friend. 

Now, they stare at Arthur with a softer gaze, but the apprehension is still clearer in their eyes than the dark skies outside. Arthur takes a step back, giving them the space they need, then squats, going down on the heels of his feet. 

He stares at them, eyes going glassy as he searches his head. 

Then without warning, his voice comes out, “Do you know how I’ll get the career dream of mine as a model?” 

Their brows furrow. They stare dumbly at Arthur, not understanding the odd and random statement he blurted out. Letting a few seconds for them to process, Arthur delivers the punchline. “Cremation. I know I’ll get the smoking hot body I need.” 

Their gaze is blank, unblinking and unreadable. 

Slowly though, their eyes lose that dimness and a spark of mirth shines through. Their chapped lips spread into a lazy half grin, showing the cracks and cuts on their dried lips. 

“That’s fucking terrible.” Arthur glances down. At least, he’s able to make them smile, right? “I...don’t hate it.” 

Arthur looks back up. The sharpness in their gaze has vanished, showing Arthur the true, deep color of their eyes. There’s a shadow of a twinkle in their eye. It’s faint, but it’s there. It shows Arthur what they could look like if they were a healthy human living a normal life, if they weren’t living in such a shitty predicament. 

“Thank you,” Arthur gives a similar half-smile, turning into a smirk. There’s that familiar incredible warmth of satisfaction in his chest whenever he’s able to make someone genuinely smile or laugh, the feeling almost addictive. 

“That’s the first joke I’ve heard in... I don’t even know.” 

“Well, let me say it’s a huge honor to give you that joke,” Arthur says, his smirk stretching when he sees them try to hide their grin. 

With their eyes on him, Arthur is almost entranced. Focused and utterly silent, their eyes seem to peer into his soul, unraveling him the and peeling back layers Arthur wants to hide under. 

Something forms in the pit of his stomach, something like a mix of anxiety and excitement. It reminds him of what he feels when he thinks of a good joke. Excitement for what, Arthur doesn’t know. But he feels it reach out to heart, twisting it, making it skip a beat. He feels the tendrils of his nervousness crawl out, almost tickling him, filling him from head to toe. 

Suddenly, he feels a balloon forming in his chest, getting bigger and bigger and the only way to stop, to deflate it, is to _ laugh. _

His shaky hand is reaching for his pocket before the laughter spills out, his other arm muffling his mouth with the crook of his elbow. The crinkled laminated piece of paper is dropped onto the leather booth seat. Once the laughter comes, it doesn’t stop. 

Their brows furrow, a spark of that fear coming back. They reach forward and take it, their eyes skimming over the words and turning it over. 

“I-I’m sorr—” he barely mutters before another fit comes rolling out of his mouth. They look up back at him, and subtly shake their head. He feels his throat squeeze, his body wanting to expel the urge to laugh as much as it can, and Arthur reaches up to his neck to rub against his throat gently, feeling his face turn red from exertion. 

They frown, seeing the painful flush on his skin. “Does it hurt?” 

He keeps laughing, but he nods. 

“Don’t try to keep it in,” they simply say, before sliding the card across the leather to give it back to him. Arthur stares at them, feeling that pit slowly lessen, and he knows it’s because of them. 

They’ve given him permission to laugh, to show his true unfiltered self even for just a moment. And that thought makes his muscles unwind in the best possible way, makes the laughter go away much quicker. 

He coughs once and twice, then the urge is gone. Arthur stares at the leather seat, his lips in his normal down-turned expression. It’s quiet. 

His hand reaches out to grab the card, only for their hand to stop him in his tracks. He looks up and the blaze in their eyes—almost like righteous fury, their brows furrowed and eyes as clear as day—gives him whiplash. 

“Don’t fucking listen to what they say,” they whisper, their words cutting through him like a hot knife slicing butter. He blinks and the anger is gone, their hand is back hidden in his jacket. Like a switch was flipped. He swallows hard and pockets the card. 

He knows exactly what they mean, but it’s easier on his head to pretend—just for now—he didn’t hear a single word. 

He stares at them, looks at the grime on their face, and for some odd reason, stretches a hand out. This time, they don’t flinch, don’t even move. He reaches out for their face, his thumb on their cheek. Their nose twitches, possibly smelling the tobacco on his fingers. He can feel their cheek bones protruding from their skin, having not eaten enough. 

The tear tracks cleared the grime on the way down, leaving two lines that seem lighter than the rest of their face. He rubs the skin, gently at first, before smearing the dirt to remove it. A tear falls, and Arthur brushes it away, using the fluid to clean their skin. The corner of his lips twitches up as he pulls away, “There.” 

Arthur takes one last look of them before getting to his feet. He glances side to side, wondering how they are able to sleep. From the confusion clear on his face, they clarify, “There’s a mattress in the back.” 

Arthur look back at them, and they seem... confused, as if they truly couldn’t understand why Arthur just did...all of that for them. 

Without another word, he turns on his heel to leave. 

“Wait!” 

He stops, turning his head to the side. They seem to pause, unsure of their words. 

“Thank you.” 

Arthur shrugs, a weak smile pulling his lips. “It’s no problem.” 

He walks out of there, pulling up his raincoat hood to shield himself from the rain. 

The next day, the building was completely abandoned. 

* * *

White. Really, all there really is, is just white. His clothes, the walls, the mattress, the bedsheets. Fucking hell, even the floor is white. 

The fact it was so white rubbed him the wrong way. It’s too...pure, for a disgusting place like this. That’s why he walked down the halls with blood on his trail, happy to see any other color than white. 

The guard definitely were not happy with that. They kept him in solitude, even took away his cigarettes. 

It wasn’t so bad. The only downside to the silence is the chatter in his head. It became unbearable. He eventually resorted to smashing his head into the glass again, a self-indulgent smile on his face as he does so. Absolutely mind-numbing, both mentally and physically. 

He chuckles to himself, laying an ace of spades to his row of cards. 

He takes his half-finished cigarette, tipping the ash on the floor beside him, his legs crossed as he hovers over his game of solitaire. He’s about to take another card into play, before a loud bang reverberates throughout the room, a guard slamming his hand on Arthur’s door. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says dully. The guards are not so fun here, they don’t respond to his quips, doesn’t play his game. It’s only when he stabs the doctor and he nearly escapes does he find it fun with them. 

“You've got a visitor.” 

His bony hand stops moving. His green eyes flicker up to the small window in the door. 

At the sight of the guard, he flashes a wide smile. “Oh. Didn’t know I had friends out of this building.” 

The guard sneers but keeps his mouth shut, knowing better than to take the bait. 

“If you try anything, we will not hesitate to bash your head in, got that?” the guard hisses. A shadow looms behind him. 

Two guards. Not worth the fun. Besides, it took Arthur too long to get his cards. He’d rather keep them, thank you very much. 

“Keep your hands up,” one of them instructs, and Arthur rolls his eyes, smushing the end of his cigarette into the floor and slowly raising both of his hands into the air. 

They rush in, quickly holding Arthur hold on the floor, practically shoving him into a straitjacket. Arthur doesn’t fight, doesn’t put up any resistance, mostly because he is curious of who is outside there, who wants to see him. He keeps a smile on his face as they drag him to his feet, manhandling him in the direction of the visitors’ room. 

As they pull him through corridors, he sees flashes of lightning outside, the thunderclaps muffled by the thick white brick walls. Seems fitting. 

He doesn’t see anyone in the room, only tables and chairs arranged like a cafeteria. He gets shoved into a seat; his arms still immobile. When they take the straitjacket off of him, they snap on a pair of cuffs, weaving the longer chain under a bar on the table, and instruct him to wait. The guards leave Arthur alone in the room. 

He quirks his lips to the side, his eyes scanning the place for cameras. Sure enough, there’s one in each corner. 

His foots starts incessantly bouncing, awaiting the arrival of whoever this visitor of his is. 

The room gives out a loud buzz, signaling the door on the other side is unlocked. 

The door opens and in steps his visitor. He doesn’t recognize them. He would have, from their looks. 

They’re holding a bag with a box of some sort and a piece of clothing inside, walking towards the table with a sense of poise, the gait in their walk showing that they’re not afraid of him. Looks can be deceiving. 

His leg stops bouncing, and he straightens his posture, now interested in whoever this stranger is. 

It’s silent, except for the soft screeching of the chair that they pull out. Once settled in, they shoot Arthur a smile, their eyes guarded. 

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.” 

Arthur cocks a brow, “I’m wondering why a stranger like you is doing in a shithole like this.” 

“I have my reasons,” they say cryptically, their eyes showing nothing. Arthur squints. 

“I know you, don’t I?” 

“Do you?” they quip back. Arthur can’t help the light chuckle. 

“Something about you is familiar, I can’t put my finger on it.” Arthur is staring, not taking his green eyes off of his visitor. A secret smile forms on their lips. 

“Do you know what’s going on outside of Arkham?” they ask, ignoring Arthur. 

Arthur smiles. “I’m guessing... chaos?” 

“You guessed correct.” They lean closer, resting their elbows on the table surface. “Riots are still happening, not as bad as when you first came out though. People are wondering where you went.” 

The grin on his smile widens, an echo of the red smile he painted on himself. “Are people missing me?” 

There’s a twitch on their lips, “In a sense, yes.” 

Arthur stares. But a bubble forms, and there’s a sudden muscle spasm in his body. Before they both know it, he’s laughing, a sound that’s both horrifying and intriguing. It sounds clear, unlike the time they heard his laughter over the television, crackles and static lacing within his hysterics. They can’t tell if he’s genuinely laughing. 

“So, what are you doing here? Are you a messenger?” There’s a spark of excitement lighting in his eye, and he leans closer, until they’re both basically breathing the same air, mirroring their posture. “You know that’s not allowed here,” he whispers theatrically, his words mixing in with wheezes of laughter. 

They shake their head. 

He can’t stop the laughter, it’s almost cathartic. Usually the guards would tell him to stop, but this person just sits there quietly, almost patiently. 

He coughs, the laughter subsiding to soft breaths. “Ooh, that was a good laugh, haven’t gotten the chance to do that in a while.” 

“I’m not a messenger. I’m here on my own terms.” They grab the bag and place it on the table. Arthur watches as they pull out a jacket. A very familiar jacket. 

“That’s mine. Where did you get that?” Arthur mutters, glancing between the jacket and them. 

“You don’t remember?” They ask. “Yeah, I’m not surprised.” 

They pause, before chuckling to themselves. “Do you know what I'll do to achieve my dream career as a model?” 

Arthur blinks. He recognizes that joke. He wrote it. “Cremation, it’s the only way I’ll get a smoking hot body,” he finishes. 

Arthur stares at the jacket and stares at them. Then a memory flits across his head. The rain. The building. The glass crunching under his feet. The fear in their eyes. The anger. The joke. 

He remembers them. 

“I remembered that joke you told me a year ago. I never forgot it.” they say, a smile tugging at their lips. 

Arthur breathes lowly, his eyes wandering over them. They look... good. Healthy. They have a flush on their skin, their eyes seem brighter than when he first met them, they look like they have been eating good too. Explains why they didn’t react over his abrupt laughter. 

“It’s been a while,” Arthur mutters, his eyes still roaming over them. 

Their smile is soft. “It has.” 

Arthur feels a semblance of disbelief within him. It’s almost crazy, how they even remember that one interaction from such a long time ago. He doesn’t really know why they would remember such an insignificant thing anyway. 

“That doesn’t answer why you’re here.” 

They place the jacket on the table and slide it across. “I wanted to return the jacket.” 

Arthur’s eyes flicker to it. He feels disappointed, almost. 

“Is that all?” 

They purse their lips and take out the box within the bag. It’s a cake box. They slide it across as well, right in front of Arthur. 

Arthur reaches out, opening it with curiosity. Within the pink cardboard box sits a cupcake, iced with the colors of red, green, blue and white, in the shape of the clown plastic masks he saw around Gotham. 

“I didn’t know if you would appreciate the design, but I just hoped—” 

“I love it.” 

Arthur face splits into a smile. 

“Really brings out the smile on my face,” he says, his back hunching as he inspects the cupcake a little closer. 

“I-I baked it. Remember the building you found me in? That was my bakery,” they explain. 

Arthur dips in finger into the icing, right on the red nose. It smears the white and red, reminding him of how the melting makeup on his face looked like after a hot day. 

He places the finger into his mouth, as he makes direct eye contact with his visitor. He hollows out his cheeks, trying to get every taste of the creamy sweetness as his tongue curls around his digit. They blink at the sight, watching the corners of Arthur’s lips twitch in mirth. They can feel the tips of their ears heat up, jaw clenching as they try to keep a straight face. 

The look Arthur is shooting them, it’s lewd, almost. The spark in his eye tells them he knows what they’re thinking. He pulls his finger out with a soft ‘pop’. 

“The best thing I’ve tasted my entire time here.” Arthur’s smile widens, “Good to know it’s as tasty as it looks.” 

His eyes roam down their body again. Only this time, he takes his own sweet time to appreciate the view, his lips stretching wider as he relishes in the way their cheeks seem to flush. 

He nudges the jacket back towards them. “And you can keep the jacket.” 

They frown, “Why?” 

Arthur leans in once again, his voice low and secretive. The tone in his voice is... almost suggestive. 

“It gives me a reason to visit you once I get out of here.” Arthur winks, delighting in the way they chuckle along, somehow finding his antics almost _ charming. _

Arthur stares at them, the laugh lines, the clarity in their sharp eyes, the small smirk planted right on their lips—an expression Arthur never saw on them during that thunderstorm, but he would say suits them—they’re relaxed around Arthur. Not an ounce of fear. 

A memory plays in his head. 

Like a shadow of what happened before, Arthur starts to reach out, only for the cuffs to tug on his skin, pulling him back abruptly. He stares at the metal chain, irritation in his eyes, a crease between his brows. Pulling back his lip with his teeth, he practically growls, “Fucking cuffs.” 

They watch Arthur as he puts one of his hands nearer to the bar, so the length of the chain allows for the other hand to stretch out even further. 

They stay still as his hand inches closer, not even really realizing they’re moving forward too. The tips of Arthur’s fingers graze the side of their cheek, right where those tear tracks used to be. He doesn’t feel the horrifying sharpness of their gaunt cheekbones; their cheeks are plumped out, soft and clean, nothing like what he felt the last time they met. 

But everything still feels exactly the same. The weight in his stomach is back, the silence is as thick as it was, the window panes are being smacked by heavy raindrops, his fingers are as gentle as they were. The biggest difference that stands out to Arthur is how they never seem to cut the eye contact, even as they lean into his touch. His murderous, cold blooded hands that have shot four people, stabbed a friend and strangled a doctor, are caressing their skin. 

“Oh,” he mutters, watching and feeling them reach up to press his hand even more flush against their cheek, enjoying the contact. “You’re absolutely precious.” 

They grin, and Arthur can feel the warm puffs of amusement blowing against his skin. 

“Thanks, I worked really hard on that,” they joke, pulling away. Arthur already misses the feel of their skin against his hands. 

They look down at their watch, and Arthur wants to wipe away the frown that appears on their mouth. “I have to go soon.” 

Arthur tilts his head, squinting. He doesn’t show his displeasure, but he certainly does voice it out. “That’s a shame. Would’ve liked you to stay longer. Everyone here is so _ ruuuude _ ,” he rests against the chair, throwing his head back dramatically. When he rights himself, he can almost feel his brain moving to the front of his skull. “They’re all buzzkills. But _ you _—” 

He grins, reaching out to hold their chin between his knuckle and thumb. They can smell the same type of tobacco on his fingers. “You’re my new entertainment source. You’re better than my deck of cards or any of the guards here. You’re _ interesting.” _

They smirk. “I try my best.” 

They grab onto Arthur’s hand, gently pulling it away from their chin as they stand from their seat. 

“I won’t visit again, unfortunately,” they say, almost forlornly. Arthur doesn’t have it within himself to disagree with their sentiment. 

They pack the jacket back into the bag, and hold it close to themselves. It’s clear, even to Arthur, that they find the jacket as some sort of...token or a sentimental piece. Arthur won’t hold it against them. He did almost stab someone when they tried to take away his notebook. So, he’s in no real place to judge. Not that he would anyway. He finds their attachment to his jacket _ cute. _Quite touching. 

A frown replaces his smile when they turn around to walk back towards the exit. Arthur doesn’t really have anything to say. But they solve that problem for him when they turn around just as their hand lays on the door handle. 

“One more thing, you might want to check the cupcake for ingredients. I don’t know what you’re allergic to.” 

At that, Arthur almost deflates. But he does give the last laugh as they leave. 

* * *

He doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s certainly past the midnight mark. The hallways outside are dark and silent, meaning even the other patients are sleeping. 

Arthur is still curled up on his bed, facing the ceiling as he shuffles the deck of cards within his hands. Usually during parties he did, the kids would ask for some sort of magic trick. He pulls out the simple ones, mostly because he can’t figure out a way to do the more complicated tricks, especially when all the instructions are on a book. The illustrations would never help at all. 

He tries to make a card disappear, only for it to land right next to his pillow. He rolls his eyes and turns on his side to reach for it, but he stops. He stares at the pink box situated on the mounted-up shelf-like side table. 

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t eaten it. Actually, he does know why. He wants to preserve it. He wants to keep their second time meeting as a memory. He doesn’t want it to become a figment of his imagination, a dream from his messed-up head. He doesn’t want to wake up to find out that meeting wasn’t real. And so, Arthur keeps the cupcake, still intact and uneaten. 

He knows it might already be stale. They came by the other day, and not for one moment after that, has Arthur not thought about their interaction. 

The words they spoke, the memory they shared, the moments that felt like it lasted a century. Whenever he lights up a smoke, a flash of their twisted expression after smelling his tobacco-scented fingers flits across his head. Whenever he rubs his hands against the white ratty bedsheets and thin blanket, all he can think about is how their skin felt softer than any of it. When he glances at the pink box, all he can see is their flushed face when they saw Arthur sucking on his thumb like a lollipop. When he hears their laugh, all he can do is laugh along with them in his head. 

He just can’t get them out of his thoughts. No matter what he does. 

He reaches for the cupcake box, his hand hovering over the top lid. Slowly, he opens it up to see the same smeared cupcake, iced in his colors. 

He dips his finger in the icing again, and licks it off. The sweetness is still as strong as the first day the cupcake entered the building. 

As much as Arthur wants to preserve the memory, he doubts the cupcake would last. Maybe just as long as he keeps the box, it’d be okay. 

He takes the cupcake out, admiring the job done on the decorating. There is even a white dot on where the nose would have been, as if showing the reflection of a light. 

Without really restraining himself, he takes a bite out of the cupcake. 

It’s chocolate. And it’s absolutely delectable. It's the perfect mixture of sweetness and cocoa. Arthur takes his time tasting every bit of it, enjoying the aroma. 

Once he reaches his last mouthful though, he bites down on something hard. He stops. 

He swallows the cake around the mysterious object placed in the cake, and licks off the crumbs when he pulls it out of his mouth. He wipes off the excess of his spit and cake crumbs with his shirt. In his hand is a small metal capsule, probably the size of a sugar cube. 

There’s a thin line around it, probably where it’s supposed to open. He pulls the two connecting pieces apart and the first thing that falls out is a tiny slip of paper. Inside of the metal cube is a chip of some sort, connected to a small button. 

First though, he picks up the piece of paper. He freezes when he reads what written on it. 

_ Press button at night. Near door. _

He frowns and looks at the small chip. Is that the button? 

Glancing outside of the window, he notices the pitch blackness outside. Normally, guards stop roaming the halls once it reaches 2 a.m. but he can’t be too sure. 

He gets up from his bed and stands close to the door. With the cube in his hand, and suspicion niggling in the back of his head, he presses the button. 

At first, nothing happens. 

Then, he hears the tell-tale sound of his door unlocking. 

All Arthur does is stare at the door creaking open. 

Then, he starts chuckling to himself. He’d rather not burst out laughing like he wants to. It’d attract too much attention. 

He looks back at his bed, where the box lays opened, the crumbs spread over his mattress. He blows a kiss to the box, his lips stretching so wide when he remembers what they said. 

“_ I won’t visit again, unfortunately.” _

_ “One more thing, you might want to check the cupcake for ingredients. I don’t know what you’re allergic to.” _

“You want me that bad, huh?” he mutters. “Well, now you’re getting what you wish for.” 

“Just wait for me. I’m coming for you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So, tell me what you think! :)  
I love all your feedback.  
This is more of a fun snippet of an idea I had for my other Arthur fic 'one phone call', but couldn't figure out how to include it in the fic.


End file.
